


Run Dry

by TinyFedoraMan



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bulimia, Drug Use, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-04-14 00:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14123721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyFedoraMan/pseuds/TinyFedoraMan
Summary: Pete really fucks up when Patrick quits Fall Out Boy mid tour. But he really fucks up when he finds out what Patrick has been doing to himself while touring Soul Punk.





	1. Chapter 1

“Tonight, we’re gonna play something new for you guys. I really hope you enjoy it.” The bassist spoke from atop of the drum risers.   
“I’m comin’ apart at the seams, pitchin’ myself for leads in other people’s dreams. Buzz… Buzz… Buzz… Doc, there’s a hole where something was. There’s a hole where something was.” The lead singer started, but as the drums came in, the audience began to boo and shout. Patrick stuttered over his next verse of lyrics before he came to a halt. Pete hopped down from the risers and snatched the microphone out of Patrick’s hands. “What the fuck is wrong with you all?! You come to a fuckin’ Fall Out Boy concert and start to fucking boo us for playing Fall Out Boy songs. Bunch of fuckers out there.” He growled, tossing the microphone to the side of the stage. “C’mon.” He muttered to Patrick, tugging on his hand. “We’re out of here.”   
“But Pete… We’re on tour. What are we supposed to do?” The singer whimpered softly as he followed, Joe and Andy close behind them.  
“Fuck them. Fuck them all. They don’t deserve us. That’s six shows now. Six. Booed off of our own fucking stage during our own fucking shows! Fucking hate them.” Pete brushed his bangs out of his face, and locked himself in their dressing room. Pete couldn’t understand where they went wrong. They gained popularity when they finally found their own voice with Dance, Dance. Obviously fans liked it when they were unique and different. But some-fucking-how, Folie was too shitty for anyone. Even the guys.   
Pete curled up on the dressing room couch, trying to map out where everything in his life went wrong. One memory in particular did stand out to him.   
Pete and Patrick were sitting in the recording room alone, as they usually did. “Try this, baby…” Pete spoke softly, knowing his fiance was close to cracking. He played a melody on his bass, which Patrick reluctantly copied the pitch into the microphone.  
“No. No. It just doesn’t work, Pete… None of this is working… I know you said not to let it affect us… And I said I’d try… But I can’t.” Patrick muttered, his baby blue eyes refusing to meet Pete’s.  
“Affect what, love? What’s wrong?” He reached out to hold Patrick’s hands, but the brunet quickly pulled away.   
“Everything.” Patrick pulled the engagement ring off of his finger. “I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending like you didn’t cheat on me. Like you didn’t get someone pregnant.” He set the ring on the table and got up. “I think we need to take a break.” Pete felt his entire world come crashing down around him. “A break…? A break from me? The band?If we break up, how can we still be a band…?”  
“We finish the album. Tour it. Then I need a break. Away from you. Joe. Andy. Everybody. I’m so fucking sick of being walked all over!” Tears rose in his eyes. “Every day, I’m just treated as the singer. I have an idea? It’s shit. It’s thrown away. Oh I wanna write lyrics? Fuck my lyrics. They’re shit. But you know what? Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking I’d forgive you for knocking up some fucking bitch! How dare you ever say that you loved me! How dare you for ever touching me. Or kissing me. Or fucking me. Or telling me I’m your one and only!” He backed Pete up against the wall. “I stayed with you. I kept you from killing yourself. I was there when no one else was. I was there for you to come home to after a long night of you fucking random girls who were probably underage, but you were too stupid to check. I was there. And you were never there for me.” Patrick growled, although he was completely crying. “This is our last album. Then I’m done. Now finish your stupid little song, because I’m not helping you out anymore. Call it Pete’s Album by Pete Wentz.” He mumbled before slamming the sound booth door shut behind him.

Pete hadn’t noticed that hours had passed since the abrupt ending to their Vegas show. He slowly opened the dressing room door back open, and hunted the halls for anyone familiar. He found a short slim woman, whom he presumed was someone’s assistant since he had seen her a few times before, and tapped her shoulder. “Um have you seen… Well, any of Fall Out Boy?”  
The slim girl turned and smiled some. “Yes, Mr. Wentz. They’re actually awaiting your return on tour bus two. They want to hold a brief meeting with you and your managers.”   
Pete felt his heart race. A meeting? Those never happened.   
Pete thanked her before quickly rushing back through the maze-like halls. He always hated stadiums because of that. They were always the same: tunnel after tunnel, dead end here, dead end there. He finally found the back door, and could see the glow in the tour bus. He let out a breath before making his way on.  
Patrick sat at one end of the table. His hands were pretty much bloodied up, but that wasn’t stopping him from picking at another hangnail. Joe sat next to him, pushing an ice cube around the bottom of his glass with a straw. Andy was curled up in Joe’s side, dozing in and out of the dull conversation that was being held. Pete cleared his throat as he climbed up the stairs of the bus and into the front area of the bus. “Hey…” He murmured, and made sure not to sit next to Patrick. If Patrick didn’t hate him, he would’ve been scolding Patrick for picking at his fingers again. He would’ve been grabbing a first aid kit, cleaning up each wound, and bandaging each. He would’ve sealed each bandage off with a kiss. Then he would’ve brought Patrick close, kissed his cheek, and would’ve told him how much he loved him. But Patrick hated him. Because he fucked everything up.   
“So what’s up?” Pete muttered, not having enough passion or energy to actually speak up.  
“We’re ending the tour early, refunding everyone, and basically sending out old merch as consolation.” The guitarist looked up from his game of pushing ice around.  
“N-no. We can’t fucking do that!” Pete clenched his eyeliner-smeared fists. “We can’t just drop tour!”  
“Well what else do you want us to do without a lead singer?” Andy growled out suddenly. Everyone had been on edge lately, but Andy lashing out meant shit was serious.  
“What do you- Patrick? What does he mean?” He instantly put on his puppy eyes.  
“It means I’m quitting Fall Out Boy, going home, and never seeing you again.” Patrick muttered, getting up from his seat with a bag already packed. “This band fell apart long before our relationship did. I can’t do this anymore.” He threw his bag over his shoulder, and exited the bus. A car was already outside waiting.   
Pete ran after him, tripping over invisible obstacles. “Lunchbox! No! You can’t do this to me! Please just stay! I need you more than I need myself. More than I need my meds!”  
“You should’ve said so before you cheated on me. Multiple times. And called me fat to some bitch you were sleeping with!” He yelled, tears already pouring.   
“You heard that…?” Pete was fully ashamed of himself.   
“Were you really cheating on me because of my weight…?” Patrick asked softly as he put his bag in the trunk.  
“W-well… You have put on quite a few pounds in the last year…”  
“Because I was sad and depressed that my fiance had cheated, and gotten a girl pregnant. It was a cry for help, but obviously, you didn't get it. I guess I have to down Ativan and alcohol in my car for you to get it, huh?” He grumbled as he got into the car, slamming the door behind him.


	2. Bad Side of 25

It had been two months since Patrick’s argument with Pete, and frankly, it had also been two months since he had seen any of his former band members. He couldn’t decide whether his choices were good or bad; all he could decide on was that he needed to lose weight. After he left halfway through tour, he went straight home to his house in Glenview, and turned off every and any phone that he had. The only communication that ever came through to him was the occasional visit by his parents.  
Patrick stood in the front hallway of his house, staring into the full length mirror that hung on the wall as decoration. He pulled at his clothes, hating the way it clung to him. His shirts were too tight. His stomach was too big. He looked like a balloon ready to explode, and his fabric was clinging on, just about ready to tear at the seams. His pants hung off, but not in any way that looked good. He was all fat, and not even oversized clothes could look good on him. His long hair curled around his neck, emphasized his double chin. And his sideburns? God. His sideburns hung like dead rats on his cheeks. The brunet felt tears spring to his eyes. He couldn’t take it. He looked disgusting, and there was no way to hide anything. Patrick fell back against the wall, sinking to the ground. He pulled his knees to his chest and let out a loud and shaky sob. He traced the rigid scars on his arms. Some were years old, dating back to angsty teenage years, where all he was was a big ball of depression, to the point where he had to cut his wrists to even attempt to feel any pain. Even then, he felt nothing. Patrick let out a long sigh, the tears starting to subside. He had to do something— anything. He looked down at himself, pale stomach peeking out from his shirt. He’d lose weight. He’d have to. The love of his life even thought he was fat. It had to be done. Patrick slowly got back up to his feet, this time ignoring the mirror in front of him. Instead, he went downstairs into the basement where an old treadmill sat. He slowly and steadily clambered onto it and began to run.   
The next few months, he dropped pounds like no other. His diet consisted as follows: Sunday breakfast- almond milk, dinner- crushed ice, Monday- an egg yolk, crushed ice, and a spoon of almond butter, Tuesday- crushed ice, Wednesday- half of a cheddar cheese slice, crushed ice, almond butter, Thursday- half of a pickle, a slice of apple, crushed ice, Friday- almond milk, a slice of apple, crushed ice, Saturday- Binge eat pizza, ice cream, ramen, and then purge it all.   
He obviously was extremely unhealthy, but no one was around to see him faint from running on the treadmill for four hours straight on nothing but water in his stomach. No one was there to watch him drink an entire bottle of grape-made vodka at nine in the morning, covered in his own blood from cutting his hips, and crying his eyes out on the bathroom floor. No one was there to watch him take a bite of ice cream, feel guilty, then run to the bathroom to purge. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. Stepping on the scale was beginning to become his drug. He was thriving off of it. Patrick would step on five times a day, and somehow the number kept getting lower. When it all started, he was a little man weighing in near 168 pounds (76 kilograms), which for a 5’4” male, was way overweight. Not to mention that he was diagnosed as a prediabetic. Now, somehow, standing with little to no balance on the scale, on a rainy October day in 2010, he weighed in at 98 pounds (44 kilograms). He looked like a walking skeleton, yet somehow in the man’s eyes, he looked like a balloon. “Never goes away..” He cried, grabbing a spoon from the bathroom medicine cabinet and shoving it down his throat. He had gotten so bad that it was getting impossible to gag himself with his fingers or utensils. He pushed it against his uvula before he finally managed to get a gag, and threw up nothing but water and blood. He hadn’t eaten in days, but he sure did purge multiple times a day. He flushed the toilet without looking and carefully clambered to his feet. He managed to make it to his couch before everything around him went black.

Once Patrick woke up, he was on an IV in a dimly lit hospital room. His sister was sitting next to him, her small child in her lap. Both were fast asleep. Without thinking, Patrick ripped the IV out of his arm. He saw a scale across the room, the kind where one has to slide the thing to get an accurate weight. He quickly removed every chord and wire from his body and clambered up. He made it onto the scale in one shaky movement, and began to move the levels on the scale until it read 102 pounds (46 kilograms.) “No no no no no!” Patrick felt hot tears come to his eyes. “I can’t be fat again…” He yelped softly. The brunet slowly sunk to the ground, until a nurse came in. “Mr. Stumph! How did you get out of bed?” She quickly helped him up and lowered him back into his hospital bed.  
“How can- can I be fat again?!” Patrick sobbed, grabbing both of the nurse’s wrists.  
“Mr. Stumph, you are underweight and malnourished. In no way, shape, or form are you fat. But you sure are unhealthy.”  
“No! I was finally looking better! What the hell did you guys do to me?!” All of his yelling was starting to stir his sister, who slowly opened her eyes and immediately frowned. “Patrick! Look how ridiculous you’re being! I come over and find you nearly dead, and you’re trying to play like you’re the victim in this entire situation?” Her voice dripped with hurt.  
“Because I’m so fat…” He cried softly.  
Once Patrick was healed up, and to 115 pounds (52 kilograms,) he was sent to a rehabilitation center in California. As much as Patrick’s family wanted him to get better around them, they knew he needed to be at the aid of all of his friends back home in Los Angeles. While in rehab, he began working on lyrics for a new album he planned on embarking on on his own. One of the reasons, besides Pete Wentz, that he left Fall Out Boy, was because no one would let him write his own lyrics. It was always Pete’s job or no one else could do it. They also never liked his own original music It was never Fall Out Boy worthy. So, his new album, Soul Punk, would be entirely written, produced, and performed by himself.   
Patrick wandered into his house, looking around at his ancient decor from before touring Folie in 2009. Things should’ve been dusty. In fact, things looked far too clean to have been untouched. He walked to the living room, only to be assaulted with the loudest, “welcome home,” that he had ever heard in his life. He actually jumped back from it. Before him stood Joe, Andy, Marcus, Brendon, Gerard, and numerous other friends… Except Pete Wentz. Patrick put on a smile as he held his chest, since his heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. “Hi… Um… Thanks…” He spoke softly. In rehab, he had somehow become far more introverted, and now, standing in front of friends who hadn’t seen him in years, he felt anger rising. He just wanted to take a nap and head to his home studio, which was what he missed the most. Penny, his small tan pomeranian, came running and barking towards him, her small tail swishing back and forth faster than a racehorse in a lightning storm. His other dog, a tall golden retriever named Buddy, barked along and hopped onto him. Patrick couldn’t help but to giggle and fall to the ground with Buddy. Both dogs licked his face until Brendon called them back over. Now smiling for real, he rose to his feet. “Hi… Uh… Welcome to my house I guess.” Andy and Joe came forward and squeezed him tightly. “God, we missed you so much.” Joe whispered softly. Andy kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re home and healthy now, Trick.”  
“Thanks.” Patrick smiled and hugged them back. He met Brendon’s eyes and blushed. The taller man was definitely in the midst of checking him out from head to toe. “Hey there, Trick-or-Treat.” Brendon smiled charmingly and wrapped him in a hug. “Long time no see.” He whispered against Patrick’s ear, causing the smaller man to shiver. “Hey Brendo.”   
The group sat around a fire out back, and Brendon forced a veggie burger into Patrick’s hands. “So… How have things been?”  
Patrick looked down and shrugged. “I cut myself off from the world, starved myself nearly to death, ended up in rehab, and here I am… So I guess I haven’t been well.”  
“Yeah… That was a dumb question, huh?” He chuckled softly. “But you’re doing better. In the grand scheme of things, you did lose weight! You look amazing, Trickster.”  
“Thanks, Bren.” He smiled sheepishly. In rehab, his drinking problem never came up, and now, watching everyone (except Andy) drink different cocktails and beers, he was itching for some strawberry flavored vodka. He grabbed the bottle from his bar and poured it into an empty water bottle while no one was looking, and returned to the fire. He downed the water bottle as if it was actual water, and waited for the creeping depression to subside. An hour later, he was hanging off of Brendon behind his shed. Brendon yanked down his pants. “Did you get the lube, babe?” He growled, watching Patrick carefully take out a bottle from his pocket. “Mmmhhhhhmmmmm. Kinda old, though. From nasty ass Pete and I.” He muttered, taking Brendon’s long member in his hand, and rubbing the cold liquid in. “Don’t think about that asshole. Tonight is about you and me.” He pulled Patrick close, balancing his own drunken self against the shed. Patrick carefully lowered himself down onto Brendon’s hard cock with a shaky moan. “Fuck! You’re so tight, baby. Shoulda worked you over.” Brendon smoothed back Patrick’s unkempt hair. “So beautiful, though. You look so amazing.” He whispered against Patrick’s ear. The small brunet let out a breathy moan as he moved himself up and down on Brendon. “Don’ care if it burns… Missed this so fuckin much, Bren. Missed getting- fuck!” His moan became more of a needy whine. “Missed getting a big cock in my ass…” He breathed out, moving his lips from Brendon’s ear to his neck, where he began to leave dark hickeys. This only encouraged Brendon, who picked up his pace, balls smacking against Patrick’s ass. “Shiiiit baby, you feel so fuckin’ good, I ain’t even lyin’.” His head tilted back, Patrick’s lips moving across Brendon’s jaw. The shorter man moaned loudly, wrapping a fist around his own cock. It turned him on even more to know that all of his friends, gathered around the fire, could hear Patrick’s moans mixed with the sound of Brendon’s balls smacking against Patrick’s skin. Brendon moved his hand over Patrick’s balls, massaging them as he pounded into his tight ass. “I want you to come for me, slut. Think I’m too drunk to fuckin last.” He muttered, already feeling his climax build. He angled his hips so that he was hitting Patrick’s prostate. The brunet was ready to fall apart at the seams. “D-daddy!” Patrick whined as he came over Brendon’s chest. “Oh fuck yeah! Forgot this dirty little boy has a daddy kink.” He growled, smacking Patrick’s ass hard. “Want daddy to come in your tight little ass, huh?” Patrick let out a breathy moan at that, ready to come again just from those word alone. “Y-yes daddy! Please!” He moved his hips against Brendon’s rhythm until he felt the man release his load in his ass. Brendon growled against Patrick’s ear as he milked out his orgasm, each thrust getting slower and slower. Patrick rested his head against Brendon’s chest, already feeling prepared to pass out in bed. The taller man slowly let his cock fall out, but picked Patrick up, and flipped them so he was against the wall. From there, he brought Patrick into a soft deep kiss. Patrick wrapped his legs and arms around the man, his eyes fluttering shut as he kissed back. Brendon left a trail of kisses down his neck before getting Patrick’s pants back up, and then his own. He carried Patrick past the fire and up to his room. He felt beyond drunk and tired to change into pajamas, so he settled on stripping himself and Patrick, and crawling into the queen sized bed. He didn’t hesitate to hold the brunet close, and kiss him lazily until both men fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the smut is shitty. I'm 120% bad at smut.


End file.
